it smells of smoke and fur
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: The smell of bukshah fur was always there, but now there was the scent of smoke and ash as well...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** written for the Diversity Writing Challenge, H18 - write in present tense.

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 **it smells of smoke and fur**  
 _Chapter 1_

His house smells moist and warm, and his parents do as well. Not quite Annad yet; she is too newborn to have the scent of the fields cling to her. But Jiller and Sefton do. They've worked long years in the fields: through the damp springs, the cold winters, the burning summers…

It is Rowan's fifth summer and the only ones to whom the field clings to more strongly are the Bukshah. Their thick clumps of wool drag through the grass and come away with pollen and dry soil. And, while gently running a comb through their thick hides, Rowan gets the field all over himself as well.

Sefton laughs and sends him off to bathe. Then a heart dinner after a day in the fields. Then sleep with a jolly song that has child smiling and father laughing again. Jiller used to laugh as well, but now she is getting a little worried. 'There are younger children,' she says to Sefton, when she thinks Rowan and Annad have gone to sleep and can't hear. Annad is too young anyway. But Rowan takes a long time in falling asleep and so he can hear their whispered conversation downstairs. 'Rowan is getting too old.'

Some days, Rowan peeks through the cracks in the loft. Then he can see their expressions as well. Jiller, her face drawn and worried. Sefton, worried but also amused. 'Rowan loves the Bukshah,' he says. 'And we of RIn are awfully set in our ways.'

Jiller's glare is more exasperated than angry, Rowan thinks. He rarely sees his mother angry. Disappointed of late though. Because Rowan isn't growing up as fast as the other children. Because he clings to his timidness even now, when he should be tall and stout and brave. When he should be pleading to leave the Bukshah to a younger child, to do something for the village: to harvest in the fields alongside his parents, to chop the firewood for their winter stores or churn the cheese and pasteurise the milk for their food. But he doesn't want to do any of those things. He is happy with the Bukshah, and he knows there aren't any children in the village who truly want the position as the keeper of these gentle beasts. If they do, he might reconsider – he might cave in embarrassment or guilt – but they don't, and so he doesn't ask. And though his parents whisper…and, by their looks, the other villagers do as well, no-one asks him to leave the Bukshah and take on another role.

But it sometimes feels like that, when lying in the loft listening to his parents talk about him. Hear the disappointment lacing his mother's tone. And her worry. And his father's worry as well. And he thinks his father is actually happy he's so different from the rest of the children as well, but he can't quite place _why_ he thinks such a thing and he can't ask.

At least the smell of the field is strong in him as well. Though his hands are soft and smooth: unmarked from blisters from the hoe or cuts from the tall stalks and prickling weeds Jiller hacks down. At least there's that one thing they all share: their love for the field, even if he can barely walk across it, let along pull weeds all day long. The fragile skin of his palms tear after the first few, and Jiller tuts and sends him off to clean his hands and wrap them up and go back to the Bukshah.

At some point they decide he's better for him to stay with the Bukshah and Jiller doesn't bring him to the fields to work anymore. Rowan still goes: of course, the Bukshah feed there and sometimes roll about in the spring and Rowan's duty is to follow them. So he sits on the fence while they grace peacefully and sometimes he sees his parents in the field, working together. Sefton heaves the wheelbarrow and the hoe. Jiller does the finer things. And Rowan, Rowan just watches until a Bukshah whines and he goes over to them and talks in a soothing voice and tries to work out what's wrong. Often they just want a pat or some water, and he'll unlatch the gate so they can go to the stream and drink and come back.

Annad is in the nursery at these times, at the nursery with the other children – all the too young ones while their mothers and fathers and older siblings work. The nursery Rowan had spent his first three years when he'd been too young too, but then there was the Bukshah, and then the fields. But he hasn't left the Bukshah. He'll never leave the Bukshah. Or maybe he'll grow stronger like is mother wishes and maybe his father wishes that as well. And then he'll work in the fields full-time and leave the Bukshah to someone younger. Annad, maybe. Or another child born to their village.

But he won't. The village knows it. He knows it as well, and it's not because he loves the Bukshah so much. The people of Rin are practical, not idealistic and sentimental. But Rowan is both of those things. He is the sort of child who would have died early in in the history of their people. He wouldn't have survived a year as a slave.

Rin is proud of its heritage: proud to be the descendants of the slaves who fought for their freedom and escaped from the Zebak across the ocean. They are proud to be the descendants of the ones who crossed the desert, made alliances with the natives of the land – the Maris on the shores, the Travellers who drifted about inland. They are proud to be the descendants of the ones who chose this place and beat it into the village it is today. The ones who worked hard to create the life they now enjoy. The ones whose strength made it all possible.

Rowan is also proud to be a part of this village, but he is not strong like that. It is true: the whispers. As a slave he wouldn't have lasted long at all. Heights make him dizzy – even the ladder in the food storage shed. And he has a whole list of other things he fears. The dark…and that's why he loves the attic. It's never fully dark up there, even though it's creaky, and high. He has the window but he rarely looks out of it. It's only for the light.

And, in the mornings, it lets in the faint scent of ash when the dragon roars. And he dresses and goes into the Bukshah fields.

By the time he's seen to them and returned, Jiller has the food prepared and has eaten her share and is ready to head out into the fields. She is strong. She's never been a keeper of the Bukshah – she's worked on the field from as soon as she was old enough to. The children usually start with pulling out the weeds. It's a simple job, hard to make mistakes with. But it needs strong arms. Rowan doesn't have those – and he manages to makes mistakes anyhow. His hands get cut up. It's an embarrassment after the first few times and it always hurts.

One day they got infected and that's the last straw for both of them. Moreso for Jiller because Rowan knows he'll go to the fields again if his mother asks him. Not because she forces him but because she'll be disappointed if he doesn't. And his father as well. His father always says he should try his best but often Rowan wonders if it's because he doesn't think he is.

Rowan thinks he does. He is simply not physically strong. He exercises with the other children, practising archery and swordsmanship with them, but that's all he can do. Before, the teachers would make him do more. Say if he builds up muscle, he'll be able to handle working in the fields, and to build muscle he only needs to train his body more. But he can't. He finds himself dizzy and unsteady on his feet and he simply has to stop. And the people of Rin are hardworking, not cruel. They see limits. They see his limits. And they accept that he'll take years before he can do strong muscle work, work children will have started years before.

Rowan thinks that would have been okay if only there are other children like him, except there aren't. Rin doesn't breed children with weak constitutions. There is a half-Traveller boy who lives in the bakery with his Rin-born mother and even he is strong, and the people of Rin laugh at the Travellers' tales and enjoy the spirit of festival they bring, but think them whimsical, and weak. But maybe it'll still be okay. One day he will have to stop being a keeper of the Bukshah. In some years when he's almost an adult and too big. And it will be too late for him to start work on the fields then. Perhaps Annad will inherit them instead. No, it's likely she will. She's so young and yet she's already proven stronger. Her grip is stronger. Her cries are stronger. And she doesn't scare at every loud noise like he'd done from his cradle. She'll be Annad of the fields and Rowan, after the Bukshah, will find something else to do. Maybe he can teach Rin's history to the young ones, or become the Wiseman –

He shivers. That is a silly thought. Sheba, the village's Wisewoman, is more frightening than heights or the dark or not fitting in. But it is not so silly a thought, because the Wisewoman or Wiseman of the village is ostracised, and Rowan is that already.


	2. Chapter 2

**it smells of smoke and fur**  
 _Chapter 2_

It's spring and his nose has started to flood again. That's another oddity in Rin: they're rarely sick, and whether that was because of their heritage, their pride or fear of Sheba was anyone's guess. Rowan's biggest concern was the fear of Sheba since the other two didn't stop him from getting sick. Sheba didn't either, but when he was he'd have to climb the hill to her house and stand there, quaking in his boots, as Sheba cackled inside and fetched some foul smelling concoction.

But his running nose won't stem with anything else, and at least this ailment is one he's grown a little familiar with. He knows the cause: the weeds that grow on the hill where nobody grows anything. It's the place where the children play, and nose streaming he's played there as well. But now that he's realised it's those weeds he shies away. It's just another thing that ostracises him. It's just another reason the adults look at him and frown in pity and disappointment and the children laugh. The first few times it happened, Jiller or Sefton would carry him up to Sheba's place. Then they'd walk a little ways forward, and then a little ways behind. Now, they both said he was brave enough to go by himself.

He isn't. He quakes in his boots every time. But he goes nonetheless, handing over the coins or seeds his parents give to him to pay with, and coming back with his potion. And he will gag as he swallow it. s thrown up plenty of times and without anyone telling him, he'll take the potion again until it stays down. His parents always beam in pride when he reaches for the bottle again. That's also a form of bravery, his father says: getting up when you fall down, trying again when you fail. It's a type of bravery the children of Rin aren't explicitly taught, though. So the other kids just laugh when he trembles on the way to Sheba again, forgetting that they ignore their own ailments in favour of not going to her at all. But their ailments are also minor things: cuts and bruises from playing too rough and the odd cold. They're not plagued with a runny nose that comes every spring like Rowan, or more than the sparse cold.

He quakes in his books now, one hand holding a rag to his nose. He knows not to rub it now. It makes his nose hurt all the more, and earns him the name "rabbit-nose". The "rabbit" bit sticks around after the redness fades. He's as timid as a rabbit, they often say. They also say his mother is as strong as an ox, so it's not uncommon or particularly cruel. It's how he appears: how they see him. His father Sefton is a Bukshah sometimes, and sometimes an ox. Less fierce than his mother unless he is angered. Then he is more. But through all that he is strong, and reliable, and always there.

Maybe that's another reason why Rowan loves the Bukshah and doesn't want to leave their side. They remind him of their mother. Though he doubts they'll turn aggressive when angered. The Bukshah wouldn't be entrusted to small children if that was the case. The people of Rin promoted bravery, but not foolishness. Only one keeper of the Bukshah has ever been met with an ill fate and that was because she had strayed into a mineshaft in the dead of night, looking for a lost calf.

Most people of Rin will have waited until morning. If it's a child they'll take torches and lamps and round up the adults and make sure there's little chance that all their lights will be lost. But for a calf they'll wait. Their own safety comes first after all – but this keeper of the Bukshah was older than most. Older than Rowan is now, he thinks. He's not sure because the story is only told in the general sense. And never at all in front of Broden, the furniture maker. Some of the children say she's the one who led the keeper of the Bukshah to their death but it's a silly horror tale. None of them really believe. The people of Rin also value unity. There are small scuffles and rivalries but never has a villager of Rin severely hurt or killed another. Even the prides of both parties are always left in tact.

But they also tell stories of Sheba, how she turns the people who trespass on her property into slugs for her plants. And the children laugh and point out slugs, naming them as "uncle" or "aunt" or "cousin" and Rowan knows it's all false because everybody in the village knows one another, but the slugs are still frightening and the stories are still frightening, and on that same vein he can believe the stories about Broden as well.

Luckily, he has little cause to go to the furniture store and he sees her mostly at village meetings. Sheba on the other hand he sees more than he likes.

And he's going to see her again, clutching the coins tight in a fists and forcing himself up the hill.

One of the roots catch him and he falls. He brushes the dirt off his pants and continues. Luckily, the scrape isn't obvious. It won't need any of Sheba's special concoctions either. He can rub a little linseed oil into it when he gets home, if it hasn't closed up by then.

He wants to go straight home, but that will mean coming all over again, so he doesn't. The coins in his palm are a reminder as well. And the rag under his nose and the lightheadedness and itchiness that accompanies the runny nose. And the pain somewhere above his eyes if he presses on them, but he doesn't make a habit of that now that he knows. He doesn't press at his bruises either, when he has them. Sometimes, the other children do, trying to make each other whimper. Rowan is always the first to lose.

He reaches the door and knocks quietly. He doesn't need to knock louder because Sheba has sharp ears and always hears, even if she doesn't listen. And she always knows who it is as well. Maybe she peeks out the window and sees him slowly coming up the hill. 'Finally here, boy,' she cackles. 'Well, I've got your medicine right here.'

Sometimes he's lucky and she gives it to him straight away. Other days she makes him come in and close the door and she mutters by the fire before sending him on his way. He hopes it's the first.

It's the second, unfortunately. 'Come in, boy. You're letting the fire out.' Then she laughs, as though she's said something amusing and opens the door.

Rowan steps inside, the coins biting into his hand. He is silent for a moment as Sheba throws another stick into the fire and mutters to herself. Despite himself, he listens. She's only talking about the fire though, and ash. He quickly looks down. The last time, she'd complained about him tracking ash on her carpet but he's not covered in ash this time.

She's also not paying particular attention to him now that he's inside. She's wrapped in her shawl and poking the fire with a stick and mumbling about fire and ash. 'Wary, wary fire,' she sings, before suddenly addressing him. 'Come. Put your hand here.' She pokes at the flames.

Rowan recoils. Sheba's fire has always been hotter than any other in the village, and it will burn. And there's no sense to the request. He hasn't got a large cut that's bleeding profusely and needs to be cauterised. And he's not metal to be heated in the forge before being hammered into shape, or food to be cooked on a skillet or in a pot.

The woman cackles at him. 'You think that will be painful?' she says. 'Imagine your home going up in flames.' She frowns thoughtfully after that and turns back to the fire. 'House in flames…but who's house? And when?'

She sounds almost worried. Unlike the witch, more like the Wisewoman that's her official name and role. 'Someone's house…is going to burn?' Rowan squeaks.

Sheba glares at him and he backs into the door. Then she smirks. 'Will you scurry up the chimney and save then, little rabbit?'

He can't. Of course he can't. He can't even put his hand into the flames, but if there really is going to be a fire and Sheba's not just pulling his leg then they need to know. Whoever owns the house needs to know.

But it's hard to tell with Sheba.

'Flames are fickle.' Sheba's expression eases and she turns to the fire again, stroking it. 'A house on fire. Ash in the sky – or are they clouds? When, and who? What tragedy?' She pulls back finally and laughs again. 'Fickle, fickle, fickle.'

Rowan's back is still pressed to the door. She stares at him, then throws him a bottle that strikes him on the chest. 'Next time bring some corn,' she says. 'I have an urge for something sweet. Now scram, rabbit boy.'

He obeys, and when his heart has calmed down and his chest is a dull ache which no longer distracts, he thinks about her words, and wonders if the adults will laugh or think it true if he tells, and whether it is true or Sheba's theatrics after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**It smells of smoke and fur**  
 _Chapter 3_

'Sheba is telling her usual stories,' Jiller sighs. 'She tells the villagers herself if there is to be a disaster.'

Rowan feels foolish, but the worry has not eased. To him, it had sounded as though Sheba was not sure about many things. Maybe she wants to wait until she knows more: whose house it is she sees, and when it will be. Maybe she doesn't want the whole village on edge now only for the diligence to cease when it is most needed. Or maybe she simply doesn't want to give them information when she'll only receive questions and little gratefulness in return.

After all, what's the use of knowing a house will go up in flames without knowing which one, or when, or why, or at what cost. 'Put it out of your mind,' Jiller says.

Rowan tries. Really, he tries.

But he can't.

The first night he drinks a dose of the foul smelling potion, gags, and washes it down with water from the stream, and stays awake in bed, clutching his toy sword. He knows it's foolish. He knows a wooden sword will be of no use against a fire, or against anything for that matter. He sleeps with it when he hears the stories of the ice-creepers too, but the wooden sword only left bruises on soft childhood skin.

He has the sword in bed with him the second day too, but this time he manages some sleep. And on the third as well. On the fourth he moves it to under the bed, and then two weeks later it's back in the chest of other things he's supposed to have outgrown and he'. Sometimes he feels he has, but then something happens and he's in need of them again. Like the stuffed Bukshah that resembles Star whenever he feels upset. He won't have Star forever, he knows. And even if he does, Star lives in the herd with the other Bukshah. Rowan can't always be telling his woes to her, always be snuggling into her fur.

But he does that as much as possible during the days. The first day after the visit with Sheba he stays almost exclusively with her, explaining the visit, wondering how much of it is Sheba's dramatization and his own fear enhancing it, and how much is the truth. The second day he lavishes the other Bukshah with attention, feeling guilty about ignoring them the day before. The rest of the week he spends with them more than with the other children. To them, he pleads his runny nose as the excuse. They, finding nothing unusual about that, accept it.

But it's not the runny nose; it's doing a lot better after Sheba's medicine, as long as he keeps drinking it. It's the thought that somebody's house might burn and Sheba hasn't warned the villagers. But it also might not burn, Rowan has to remind himself. Sheba's always by that fire of hers. Maybe she decided to use it as her horror story stage that day. And Jiller and Sefton come back from a village meeting one day over a fortnight later and say Sheba's said nothing about a fire. The meeting was about the storm clouds approaching from the coast. The Traveller forerunners had brought the news, leaving their brethren in Maris to do so.

Another week later, the storm is almost upon them and his medicine is about to run out. Rowan has been busy collecting feed for the Bukshah and making sure it's nice and dry in the shed. He's also extra diligent to check on each of them. One seems a little slower and fatter than usual and he wonders if she is bearing a foul. It will take a few days more to know so he guides her into the shed as well, just in case. The Bukshah don't like enclosed spaces but he explains in a soft voice about the storm. He explains it won't be good for her health to be battered by the winds or soaked to the skin and though the Bukshah are usually resilient beasts, she's supporting another life inside of her and is more fragile. And then he has to move all the food again into the crates the Travellers last brought fireworks in, because otherwise there'll be none left for the other Bukshah.

The storm comes and goes overnight, and the next day sees the entire village brushing water away from wood. The children collect it in cotton and throw it at each other before they are scolded and told to wring them out in the stream. The adults sweep the farms and fields. Sefton sweeps the Bukshah paddock while Rowan grooms each of the Bukshah and checks their health. Three have come down with fevers since the storm, and he makes a note to get medicine for them from Sheba as well.

When he goes, Sheba is absorbed in the fire and only barks out a price and throws a bottle at him. This time he catches it.

Though he's halfway down the hill before he remembers that he should have asked for a refill of his own medication as well.

 _Another day,_ he thinks. Maybe tomorrow if the Bukshah were feeling better. Because his hands are a little full at the moment and he doesn't want to be distracted from the sick Bukshah – or the one that had turned out to be pregnant after all.

At home, Annad is cranky after the storm and Jiller is stretched thin between working on the fields in the day and coaxing the small child to sleep at night. In the attic, Annad's wails barely reach his ears. But he smiles anyway. Annad is sort of cute when she cries, especially when she's cranky. There's something endearing about it. Maybe that's why parents of Rin liked having babies that are often cranky. It's different than often cranky. Not that Rowan can really say; he doesn't remember how his wails as a baby used to sound.

And Sefton works a little overtime in the field, between Jiller needing to stay with Annad and Rowan having needed help sweeping the Bukshah field, so it's just Jiller and Annad in the bedroom.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face for the first time in a while and dreams of nothing. He expects he'll be woken by his father's gruff but gentle voice singing as he comes home, or by the dragon's roar at dawn.

He's instead roused by screams. Blurrily, he opens his eyes. The screams are coming from outside but inside everything is grey. And the air is thick. He coughs, then smells something and coughs again. Smoke. He's smelling smoke. Something's on fire. And the villagers are outside, screaming.

And then he hears his father's roar. His father is angry. And scared. He's shouting to them. He's outside. Then inside. He's yelling for Jiller to wake up, to grab Annad. He's yelling at Rowan to come downstairs.

But he can't go downstairs. The trapdoor burns his hands and he's reminded of Sheba's cackling voice. 'Put your hand in the fire.'

But he has to put his hand in the fire now, otherwise he'll burn with the house. He grits his teeth and grabs the handle again. It burns: a sharp, searing pain and he lets go. He can't grasp it any longer. Something else, then. He has to get the trapdoor open. He tries the wooden sword. The first time it slips. He sees the fire climb up his curtains.

'Rowan!' His father, again. And the other villagers, but he can hear his father. 'Downstairs. Or the window. Get out of there!'

The window! But the curtains are on fire and he can't jump in to them. And he can't jump out of them. His legs feel weak. He thinks he'll rather take his chances with the trapdoor and maybe that empowers him, because he manages to get it open.

But fire is licking at the stairs as well, and the roof, and it's like he's trapped inside. There's fire everywhere.

He screams shrilly. There's no way out. There is a fire after all and it's in his house and he can't get himself out, let alone save anything or anyone else. The fire sneaks up to his bed and be snatches the blanket from it. The smoke's even thicker now and he coughs and stops screaming because he can't stop coughing, now that he's started. 'Rowan! Rowan!'

And then suddenly Sefton is there, looking in the room that's all grey or orange and red and barely anything can be seen. Rowan hears him and runs for the sound, and clings to his father once he finds him and gasps for air. Sefton grips his shoulder tightly, then picks him up and tries to carry him down the stairs. The stairs break though. They'd barely let him get up.

So Sefton makes for the window, and Rowan relaxes a little and just tries to breathe because his father is a true villager of Rin, brave and heroic. His father will save them both. It sounds like he's saved Jiller and Annad already. He can hear Annad screaming. He thinks he can hear his mother too, with the other villagers. He can hear someone else's voice louder though. Strong John's. Sefton's friend. He's yelling at them to get out. Or just for Sefton. It's hard to tell and Rowan knows they'll rather both than one, but if it is one, they'll rather Sefton than him.

And then Rowan is falling out of the window into blackness, and his father isn't holding him any more.


	4. Chapter 4

**it smells of smoke and fur**  
 _Chapter 4_

The villagers are angry at Sheba, but none moreso than Jiller. Rowan listens with a heavy head and heart to her shrill screams. 'You knew! You told Rowan you knew but only those useless, teasing things. And now Sefton is dead!'

Rowan knows his father died coming back for him. If only he'd jumped out the window on his own, then Sefton wouldn't have had to come back inside.

But nobody outwardly blames Rowan. Oh, they cast him looks of even greater disappointment than before, but they don't outright blame him. They do with Sheba though. They say she should have told what she'd seen to the elders, instead of to a babbling child who couldn't differentiate fiction from fact. Jiller sighs and points out Rowan did bring the news to her at that point, that Rowan did his bit and it is she, as an adult, who discarded the news. But she also blames Sheba for not being more direct.

So Sheba is in a foul mood the next time Rowan sees her.

It is almost a month after the fire. Someone had refilled his medicine for him and one of the younger children had been tending to the Bukshah while he recovered. But he takes the job back as soon as he is able. Sooner, actually, because his head spins unpleasantly but the Bukshah are warm and safe.

Home is not there anymore. The villagers are rebuilding it, with Broden at the front of it all. They: Rowan, Jiller and Annad, stay with Strong John in the meantime. In his little house with the orchard. It's a pleasant place. The other children are jealous after their grief passes. Sefton is well loved by all, but they are people of Rin. They grieve outwardly for a little, and then move on.

But Rowan is not a typical child of Rin so they let him grieve longer. His way of grieving is with the Bukshah anyhow. He takes them sweet smelling fruits from the orchard sometimes. Strong John says he can. Strong John calls him "little rabbit" almost teasingly. Rowan doesn't like when he does that, but doesn't say. Because Strong John is kind. Strong John lets them all stay, and helps Jiller with the fields as well as his own work with the orchard. Strong John plays with Annad. And Strong John lets Rowan collect the fruits that have fallen and are starting to spoil, and give them to the Bukshah.

The Bukshah are not picky about flavours, and that's good because otherwise Rowan would be reluctant to feed them such treats all the time, lest they get used to it. Because they won't live with Strong John forever. They'll move back into their home once it's built, and Rowan will sleep in the attic again and by then maybe Annad will be old enough for her own room. That's the way of the village. They move on from tragedies. And they're not unheard of. What hurts Jiller the most perhaps is that Sheba had some sort of warning and had done nothing.

Or maybe that's just an excuse and she's trying hard not to be angry at Rowan instead.

Either way, Rowan is also angry at Sheba. He doesn't want to go to her for more medicine but that's not anything new. This time, it is Strong John who gives him the price to give her. 'Fruits from the orchard,' he says, 'She asked for some, last time.'

Jiller is unhappy. 'We can pay ourselves,' she says. 'Some sweet corn will –'

But Strong John silences her kindly. 'Rowan helps with the orchard,' he says. It's almost a lie. All Rowan does is pick the fruit that's fallen due to the wind or the crows, and he feeds them to the Bukshah. 'Consider it his payment.'

So Jiller accepts and nods Rowan off, and he trudges his way to Sheba's door.

He's still terrified of her. He's angry as well, but not angry in the sense that he wants to march up to her and shout in her face. He just doesn't want to hear her cackles. Because they'd just set him on edge and been useless and they could have saved his father if only they'd been presented a little differently. But they hadn't.

He reaches the door and Sheba opens it before he can knock. 'You smell of ash,' she says abruptly.

Rowan bites his lip. Sheba will turn him into a slug, or worse, if he speaks out of turn. And then his anger will be of no use at all.

But Sheba laughs. 'You're angry too? The little rabbit is angry enough to sink his foreteeth into poor old Sheba?'

Laughing, she leaves the door open and retreats inside.

Rowan stays on the threshold.

'Come on, boy. You're letting the draft in,' Sheba snaps.

'Sheba – ' His voice is quaking. His brain is telling him not to speak but his lips move anyway.

'What, boy?' And just like that, it is too late to spit it out. 'Spit it out.'

He gulps. 'Why didn't you – why didn't you tell the elders?'

She straightens up and, to Rowan's surprise, gives him a look that's like a weary old lady. It's like Jiller's face when she first tells him his father's died and their house is nothing but ash. A defeated face. A face that shows weakness that most of Rin tries to hide.

'The future is not a simple matter,' Sheba says finally. 'Nobody understands it. Sometimes the fire gives a hint of use. Often it doesn't. Sometimes the hint can change the future. Often it stays the same. And sometimes it's just a lie in those flames. Do you understand it?'

'N-no-,' Rowan stammers. He understands little at all.

Sheba's voice darkens. 'Fool,' she snaps, throwing him a bottle. Rowan fumbles the catch and winces at the pain that shoots through his thumb. 'You of all people should learn wisdom.'

Rowan doesn't understand. Nor does he want to understand. What little he does tells him Sheba hadn't been sure herself about the image in the flames herself. Hadn't been sure if it was real, or an illusion. Hadn't been sure about the when or the where or the who. Unless they'd known the fire would take place then, how would they have stopped it?

But there's no denying that Sefton had not died because his house caught fire, but had died because Rowan hadn't jumped from the attic window of his own accord.

He goes to Star. Star is always there to listen, and her fur smells like all Bukshah do. The villagers used to call Sefton the Bukshah, the Bukshah because he was always kind and gentle. Star is kind and gentle, and now there is no father to seek comfort from and he doesn't want to put even more of a burden on Jiller. At least to Star he is a help. He gives medicine to the ill of the heart. He brushes their fur every day and sometimes brings them treats. He guides them to the stream and back, and helps birth their foals when the time comes. Actually, birthing their foals is little to do with him at all. The pregnant Bukshah wonders off and gives birth in some quiet part of the village, often breaking the fence and escaping the field. And then Rowan follows and cleans the calf in the stream and guides it back alongside its mother. If it required more muscle work he might have been something he was incapable of. He's glad it's not. The Bukshah can depend on him, at least.

Eventually, the house is rebuilt and their surviving possessions rearranged (those kept in things or were themselves not made of wood) and they move back in. The first night the attic is cold but the smell of smoke and ash is still there, and every time Rowan closes his eyes he sees the thick haze, and the flames licking the wood, and Sefton's form, blurred amidst the smoke. He wishes he could sneak into his parents' bed but he can't. It's not his parents' bed anymore but just Jiller's, and he had to be a big boy of Rin. A big, brave, boy.

He tries to pretend he's snuggled into Star instead, and the next morning after leading the Bukshah to the stream he does. He falls asleep against Star and Star is careful not to move too much from her spot until she is hungry, and then she wakes her keeper. The days pass like that, smelling smoke, smelling Bukshah fur, smelling ash. He forgets the details of visits to Sheba and she stops feeding them, throwing what he needs and taking his payment and being done with the whole ordeal. And the villagers go back to how they'd treat Sheba before. Laugh at the fact that she rambles in her cottage, alone. Go to her for medicines. Ask for her advice if any disaster strikes the village, but they are only minor things and she tells them nothing of use to aid them. She is the ostracised Wisewoman who holds a traditional role.

And then one day the stream stills and Sheba's prophecy proves itself an invaluable thing. And Rowan remembers the words she'd said to him before. That he of all people should learn wisdom. Because the map spills its secrets in his hands alone and he is just a scared little rabbit whose skin smells of smoke and ash and Bukshah fur.


End file.
